The people of the village were busy going about their daily business. Suddenly an angel descended.
"You have only 14 minutes left to live", said the angel.
"Says who?" asked one of the villagers.
"Says the author. Hold on, she has to sharpen her pencil."
There, that's better.
"You aren't going to say that counted as part of the fifteen minutes now, are you?" asked the villager.
"No, of course not!" said the angel.
"So why this fifteen minute thing?"
"More like nine now. The Author has created you for Her purpose; Her purpose will be fulfilled at the end of that time."
"So She's just going to kill us? She won't even let us continue our lives?"
"You only exist within Her story. When She stops writing, you're gone. Don't worry – it'll be painless, and everyone you know will be gone too."
"What about my children?"
"They don't actually exist yet. The Author has not written them into Her story."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"No. The Author has made up Her mind. Three minutes, by the way."
"But – there's so much I wanted to do! I wanted to see the world!"
"There is no world. The Author has only created a village (this one). Nothing else exists."
"But – please – can't there at least be a happy ending? I hate stories where everyone dies."
"We shall have to consult with the Author. Time's up, by the way."
They all lived happily ever after. The end.